


Blur of Sounds

by tari_roo



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Hurt John Sheppard, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:18:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tari_roo/pseuds/tari_roo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Politics aside, Kaari wasn’t a holiday destination. Throw in an ambush, a thorough beating and being captured, and Sheppard is more than ready to go home. Or wait to be rescued. Whichever ever happens first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Title:  Blur of Sounds Part 1

Author:  [ ](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/profile) [ **tari_roo** ](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/)

Recipient:  [](http://vecturist.livejournal.com/profile)[ **vecturist**](http://vecturist.livejournal.com/)

Word Count:  10400

Rating:  PG

Warnings:  None. Spoilers only for cast. Set post season 5

Summary: Politics aside, Kaari wasn’t a holiday destination. Throw in an ambush, a thorough beating and being captured, and Sheppard is more than ready to go home. Or wait to be rescued. Whichever ever happens first.  
  
Beta'd by the truly awesome[](http://phebemarie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **phebemarie**](http://phebemarie.livejournal.com/) and [](http://ferrous-wheeler.livejournal.com/profile)[**ferrous_wheeler** *](http://ferrous-wheeler.livejournal.com/) \- Ladies, you are lifesavers. Thank you for the quick assist.

  


*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*

The dry semi-arid world of Kaari was steeped in history and tradition, which naturally meant there were entire annals of history spanning decades dedicated to war and conflict between its peoples. Whilst Kaari had not been an original Ancient settlement, its climate too intemperate and variable for a comfortable and easy life, it had nonetheless received a Ring and was settled during the war with the Wraith as people fled to new, unexplored worlds in the hope of escaping the menace.

Only two distinct groups were left of the original flood of refugees, or rather one people with two distinct and conflicting political views. The Jhim, the smallest and most vocal party were isolationist and in favour of burying the Ring in order to safeguard their world from the Wraith. The Paedi on the other hand, felt that the Wraith would simply send their Hive Ships and cull them any way.  With the Ring, they had trade opportunities, a place to flee on friendly worlds, and information on the galaxy at large.

As a result, the political conflicts between the parties had been long, arduous, and overblown, with the Paedi in the majority and currently controlling the Ring. 

The small village of Bol, a traditional Jhim stronghold, was the closet settlement to the Ancestral Ring, a position the Jhim clung to with pride, determination, and mindless ferocity.  Their frequent attempts to bury the Ring were repulsed by the three nearest Paedi villages, making the political tension in the the most violent and explosive. 

The sun was hanging low in the sky, which was already pinking the dry vegetation and painting the horizon blood red when Jai, a local Jhim scout, ran into the village of Bol, red faced and breathless with news:  a group of Genii had come through the Ring and were selling weapons to the Paedi.

Faani, leader of this band of Jhim, was suitably irate and fearful. His arrangement with the Genii was fairly recent and quite simple - that they would supply him and only him on Kaari. If the Paedi were increasing their fire power and moving away from the traditional single shot rifles, then things on the Ring Border were going to change, for the worse. Already outnumbered by the Paedi, the Jhim of Bol could not afford to lose the village. The Jhim would never regain the land, at least not in their lifetimes if the Paedi forced them out. And who knew what disaster would befall Kaari if that happened. 

A band of thirty Jhim followed Faani into the brush, their beige and brown clothing blending into the dry landscape. Jai led them straight to the main thoroughfare between Haim, the closest Paedi village, and the Ancestral Ring. 

There in the distance the four strong Genii trading delegation approached, their darker clothing a distinct sign of ‘alien-ness’. The Jhim settled into position along the road silently, as only Jhim could, at home on their dusty world. As the Genii drew nearer, and the haze of the hot sands diminished, their clothing turned from Genii Gray to black. Atlantean Black.

Everyone knew the Atlanteans were in competition with the Genii, both in paid protection and arms dealing. The Atlantean weapons were far superior to the Genii rifles and more expensive. If the Paedi had concluded a deal with the Atlanteans – either for mercenary work or arms - the latest Jhim initiative would be in serious trouble, their position between the Gate and the rest of Kaari in jeopardy. 

Immediate action was needed.

Signalling his men, Faani fell back and re-positioned them for an ideal ambush. Faani had chosen this section  of the road for good reason - the brush was dense, but dry enough to allow clear sightings on their targets. The Atlanteans would have no cover and would have to surrender or die. 

Whether by luck or skill, first blood went to the Jhim. The opening salvo of gunfire caused an instant reaction, the Atlantean’s dropping to the ground. One soldier was too slow though, or perhaps the Jhim’s aim too good, but the fourth man, at the back, fell back in a spray of blood as a bullet hit his skull. 

The Atlantean response was devastating. 

Their rapid fire cut through bush, shrub, and his men, and before the Jhim could find stronger, more effective cover, Faani had lost five good fighters one of them Ruui, Kuuro’s brother. Ever the hothead, Kuuro opened fire in earnest himself, yelling loudly and urging those nearest him to do the same.  The clearing around path became a killing field, as first one Atlantean soldier fell, then another.  Faani screamed at the top of his lungs for his Jhim to stop firing.

He had to know what deal the Atlanteans had concluded with Paedi. That information was far more important than revenge. 

Finally, finally, the noise died down, the last shell casing landing on the dirt, adding a final puff of dust to the already hazy air. The only sound left was that of one of the Atlanteans slowly drowning in his own blood as his throat filled with the warm liquid. His leader, the last Atlantean alive, had scrambled over desperately trying to stop the bleeding with hands and arms already red and wet, as his man died.

The raw silence was broken by cries of pain from his own men. With their own wounded and dead to tend to, the Jhim were caught in a morass of indecision. Faani snapped the amber moment of immobility and snarled, “Look to your brothers. Kuuro, restrain the Atlantean.” 

Kuuro was already moving, his face dark with grief and anger.  Faani let him drag the Atlantean off his wounded friend, but he yelled sharply in reminder, “I need him alive, Kuuro!”

Eight dead, nine wounded, more than half of his men gone or incapacitated. Those still standing and not tending the wounded joined Kuuro as he wrestled the Atlantean into submission. Faani watched dispassionately as at first they all stood back and let Kuuro handle it. 

Red hands dusty, the Atlantean was not giving in quietly, still trying to tend his own man. Kuuro tried simply to drag him off the pool of blood growing around the dead soldier, but, twisting and kicking, the black clad man would have none of it.   As good as Kuuro was in close quarter combat, a champion wrestler in the village, he fumbled and was soon rolling all over the place, arms and legs kicking up dust as he tried to subdue the prisoner, who refused to quiet, quit, or give in. 

One good blow, a sharp punch to the face, snapped Kuuro’s head back.   His nose blossoming into a fountain of red like it was a signal, the others stepped in. All too soon it turned into a beating, four against one. 

With half an eye on the mad scrabble of men, fists and legs and grunts of pain, Faani picked up one of the Atlantean rifles and marvelled at its smooth material and light weight. It was far superior to the Genii guns, which had a bad habit of misfiring or exploding after too much use. Faani had had strong words with Koran the last time he visited. Words that included a demonstration of his displeasure. 

Maybe Atlantis could be persuaded to ransom this soldier for weapons. It would be a good deal. That is... if the Paedi had not already struck their own. Then perhaps instead, the Atlanteans would need a warning about interfering in Kaari affairs.

Signalling for Kuai to start stripping the dead, as the Atlantean armour would prove useful, Faani yelled again at his four men, “What did I say?  Don’t kill him!”

By now, the Atlantean had been bound, hands behind his back, stripped to shirt and leggings, and Kuuro was punishing him, raining a furious tirade of blows to face and chest. At Faani’s shout, Jai pulled Kuuro off, and the Atlantean dropped to the dusty earth just about senseless, his face a mess of blood and bruises. The dust settled on the wetness, caking the Atlantean’s face in a death mask of gore. Kuuro shook free of Jai and angrily pulled the Atlantean’s boots off, tossing them at Jai.

Risking a quick glance at Faani, not waiting for approval, Kuuro pulled up one bare foot towards him and sliced into the sole from toe to heel. Apparently satisfied with the scream of pain, Kuuro dropped the foot and stepped back, leaving the Atlantean to writhe and curl in the dust at the fresh agony. 

Unhappy, but disinclined to meet the defiant challenge of Kuuro right now, Faani hefted his newly acquired armour and gun and barked, “Bring him, and he better still be conscious by the time we get home.”

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*

Faani didn’t particularly care if Kuuro got in a few more hits and punches on the trip back; he just wanted the Atlantean awake and aware enough to talk. The blasted Paedi were up to something, of that he was certain, and there was no way he was going to lose the advantage the Genii guns gave them. 

Jai was flitting ahead of them, making sure the way was clear of Paedi spies and traps. You never could tell with those Wraith-loving cowards. Most of the men were carrying a comrade – either one of the dead for funeral rites or helping the wounded back to the safety of Bol. They had left the dead Atlanteans where they had fallen, the thirsty dust soaking up their blood, stripped of everything of value.

Kuuro and Gaiti were in charge of the prisoner, and as a result were lagging behind, making everyone slow and sloppy – their attention diverted. Between forcing him to walk on his cut up foot and bodily dragging him along when he failed to do so, the prisoner was going to be dead by the time they reached Bol.

“Pick him up, Kuuro! We’re too exposed to be stalling like this.” Faani didn’t turn around to shout, his eyes fixed on the brush around them, trying to make up for the lax eyes not paying attention to their surroundings. 

Of course, Kuuro did not answer, and Faani did not expect him to. He would say nothing until he had completed the funeral rites for Ruui and taken his final revenge on the Atlantean. But nonetheless Gaiti and Kuuro picked up the prisoner, the pace quickened, and soon Bol swam into view, the heat from the sand and air melting together into a familiar haze and cover.

Jai whistled in their approach and the sentries responded in kind. As the group passed under the tall entrance roof, Faani touched his forehead in remembrance of the dead. Too many had departed their home alive and returned in eternal peace. A better fate than death by Wraith.

Mae was waiting for them, her face stern and angry, no doubt expecting the dead.  As their true numbers entered, her face fell, and she snapped at Faani, “Sludgebrain! Fool! What have you done?”

Refusing to rise to her anger, knowing it was justified, Faani waved her to work.  “Tend to the wounded, woman. Leave us to the rites.”

She scowled but nodded her assent and the bolder womenfolk scurried forward, helping the wounded men to the women’s quarters. Looking around the open ground of the village, protected on all sides by high walls and turrets that topped the living quarters, armoury, and kitchen, Faani yelled, “Put him in the dog pen.  Let’s tend to our dead first.” As was right, Jhim dead were more important than Atlantean prisoners at least until the rites were done.

The last of the dogs had died a month ago, shot by a Paedi farmer on a raid. The Paedi had good reason to fear and hate Jhim hounds, who obeyed only their masters and hunted all other men. The pen was now empty and clean but still secure, its little walls and gate sturdy enough to keep the dogs from the children. It would do as a prison for now. They had nowhere else to keep a captiver.

Kuuro happily tossed the prisoner into the pen, its sunken floor a good two feet below the main village round.   He climbed in and tied the narrow rope around the Atlantean’s neck and wrapped the other end around one of the posts. An unerring accurate kick was his parting gift, which elicited a sharp cry from the prisoner.

Jai was directing the others in laying out the dead, and Faani drew his knife in preparation. Eight good men lost and so far, nothing to show for it but new guns with limited ammunition, armour, and a prisoner. Not the best bargain he’d ever made.

The survivors, and those men who had stayed in the village, gathered around and each cut the palm of his hand diagonally, deep enough to bleed but shallow enough not to impair work. Faani’s palm bore too many lines, too many men lost over the years to Paedi treachery.  In silence they each in turn laid a hand on the remains of their friends and compatriots, leaving hands and faces more gory than before – the mixed blood of Bol a final gift to the dead – a promise to remember. Kuuro lingered over his brother, openly weeping, both hands cut, no doubt mixing the blood of the Atlantean into Ruui’s wounds as well.

Once everyone was done, and Gaiti had lifted a still sobbing Kuuro away, Faani said quietly but firmly, “Our friends died in the cause. They died to ensure that one day, one day, we will be free of the Wraith. That they died at the hands of Offworlders is a testament to their courage to face all dangers – even alien ones. They will be remembered.”

At his nod, his men began the grisly task of stripping the dead. You could not be wasteful in these hard times; the dead had no use for anything now. Once, the Jhim had buried their dead in soft, fertile earth, but that had been thousands of years ago on the Old World. Now the men of Bol transported the bodies to the lime pits beneath the lavatories and mess pits. Nothing would remain of the dead to spread disease. Only in memory would they remain alive. Let the Paedi travel through the Ring and bring death and disease amongst themselves. It would not be the Jhim to succumbed to foreign maladies and foul diseases.

Gaiti drew Kuuro away to the men’s quarters, his sobs still loud and painful. Once all of the dead were gone, their belongings distributed and clothes sent to the laundry, it was time to interrogate the prisoner.

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*

Visiting some planets was like seeing the world for the first time. Breathtaking vistas and awe inspiring horizons combined with a variety of fauna and flora all made the job of travelling in Pegasus a true unending pleasure. 

And some worlds were dusty hellholes.

PRV626 was so going on his list of planets to nuke, if Woolsey ever let him send the growing list to the SGC. General O’Neill would understand, he’d give him the go ahead. Stupid, frigging, shot to hell missions....

Sheppard tried to find a position that didn’t put pressure on his ribs or head, but it was impossible between the short leash around his neck and bound hands, but damn if he wasn’t going to give it his best shot. 

The immediate area smelled.... doggish. A lingering odour of urine, wet fur, and blood that reminded him of Ms. Cavendish’s house, the dog breeder his father had taken him and Dave to one year.  They’d stood in her yard, surrounded on all sides by kennels and baying dogs, and had tried to find a puppy they both wanted and would be willing to share. They had left empty handed, their arguing and inability to agree resulting in their dad’s refusal to stay any longer. The smell of dogs in close quarters would always remind him of the sharp bitter tang of disappointment and childish resentment towards Dave.

The air was still hot and dry, and Sheppard fought the urge to wet his bloody lips, the taste of dusty blood already coating his teeth and tongue. Awkwardly moving protesting muscles and bones that screamed in denial, he finally found enough leverage and give in the rope to sit up, cross legged.  He took a moment to breathe through the pain, his chest on fire with every breath as he tried to calm down, taking shallower, slower inhalations. It wasn’t easy. The roar of anger that surged through him kept his heart pounding no matter how much it hurt his aching skull. His foot was a distant agony, a throb lost in the overall ‘ow’ of his body

As much as that irate Kaari rebel had let into him, (and his face was feeling puffy and bruised and oh so tender) Sheppard figured he’d be especially fortunate to escape a concussion. As he leant against the post, the smooth wood cool on his skin, he knew he’d be lucky if he could see out of his puffy eyes by the end of the day.  What did Rodney say about ‘one too many blows to the head’? Sheppard couldn’t quite remember. Flashes of Fraser drowning,  Sheppard’s hands ineffectually holding back the hot blood spurting from the jugular, kept intruding, making everything else inconsequential. 

As it was, Sheppard’s immediate surroundings were blurry and indistinct.  He slowly counted off, controlling his breathing and shoving those blood red images away – for now-  the gate to the little pen swam into view, then swam out, but slowly steadied into clarity.

It was a simple latch, a peg hooked into a loop of rope, something beyond canine manipulation. In the distance, people were moving around, voices muted by his raging headache, their forms blurry, and their movements erratic.  The two or three feet in front of him was clear – sort of. As Sheppard stared at the pen, its low fence and simple latch, he noted the blur of wooden structures above and around: the single entrance into the village; the amount of people; the relative nearness of the StarGate, unseen but not too far off.

Hell, the pen was a useless prison, he’d be able to step up and over it in two seconds. Sheppard’s true obstacle to freedom were the ropes – around his hands and the one tethering him to the pole by his neck. 

Biting down on his lip just hard enough to stave off the all encompassing exhaustion mixed with concussion, Sheppard tried to calmly assess the situation. Ropes. Injuries. Blurred vision.

And the guy in charge was heading towards him. Sheppard couldn’t tell if he was pissed, but... he probably was. 

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*

 Life did not stop, not when the freedom and safety of your people was at stake and there were meals to prepare, men to tend to, plans to be made. No matter who died, life rolled on, the sun climbed the sky, stars appeared, Wraith came. 

Faani waited for most of his men to return to the business of their interrupted tasks, as the Jhim eeked out an existence. Only Jai and Kuai remained with him; Mae, a silent, disapproving glower in the dark of the doorway leading to the women’s quarters. The sounds of the life in the village picked up, no longer interrupted but still leavened with grief, laden with fresh sorrow. Kuuro was not the only one openly grieving their losses.

It was time for answers, and Jai did not need his nod to leap into the pen, untie the Atlantean and haul him through the gate. The man swayed and collapsed onto his knees, his face a mess of cuts and bruises, both lips split, mouth bloody. Kuuro was always thorough, no matter what he turned his hand to. Between the dirt and blood, the man’s face was a true testament of Jhim fury. His body would bear similar wounds and marks. As it should. As was right. 

Faani stepped closer, and the Atlantean flinched as Faani’s boot nudged his leg rather firmly, his broken visage swinging vaguely upwards, seeking the source, the man.  He was blinking furiously, one eye refusing to work at all, and Faani figured he was seeing double or barely anything.

 Sure enough, it wasn’t Jai’s movement that startled the Atlantean, but the sound of his boots as Jai closed in him. He moved away too late, and Jai easily caught the rope still tied to the man’s neck, hauling it close, until the leash was tight and firm, making the Atlantean gag a little. Belatedly, the prisoner straightened and blinked but on the whole looked pathetic, beaten.

Faani nudged his leg again and said, “How many guns did you sell to the Paedi?”

“What? None.”

The Atlantean’s voice was rough and dry, his gaze definitely unfocused as he tried to look at Faani but kept scanning the area, trying to pinpoint Jai. Kaui, silent at Faani’s side, was ignored. 

Jai pulled on the rope sharply, eliciting a sharp, cut off cry, and Faani hissed, “How many?”

Rasping, struggling to breathe, the man growled, “None! We don’t sell guns!”

As Jai loosened his grip, Kaui struck like a grass adder, sharp and true, closed fist landing on the already broken skin.  The Atlantean’s head rocked back, fresh blood spilling. The man did not see it coming, did not even flinch as the blow approached.

“How many guns?”

A wad of blood was spat in Faani’s general direction, and the Atlantean barked, “We are not gunrunners. No guns. Not for you, not for anyone...”

This time Jai tightened the rope, and Kaui lashed out with a kick, striking the same place.  The man cried out, falling back and choking against the rope, unable to move in Jai’s tight hold. Faani waited for the prisoner to right himself, recover to his knees.

“If not guns, why are you here?”

The Atlantean, his black hair grey with dust, groaned and spoke to the ground, no longer trying to see his captors. “You could have just stopped us and asked, you know.”

Jai jerked the rope, and the man wheezed, tongue darting out of his mouth in desperation. “Why did you meet the Paedi?” Faani felt not a single morsel of sympathy for the man who might be grieving his own dead. 

One eye glued shut with blood, the man lifted his face towards Faani but looked more to the left than true sight would allow.  “They asked for help, for medicine,” he snarled. “We came to help.”

Faani dropped to his knees, startling the prisoner with the movement. Up close the damage Kuuro had wrought was impressive, and Faani couldn’t help the smile as he retorted, “The disease that plagues the Paedi is of their own making, and they deserve the death that awaits them. But I think you lie, Atlantean.”

The Atlantean stared blankly at Faani, his one open eye barely moving, but his voice was hard, dangerous, like he wasn’t bound and captured. “I don’t care what you think, numbskull – it’s the truth. “

Faani felt the hairs on his arms rise in response to the strength of the man’s words:  defiance pricked with real fury. Faani slowly reached out towards the man’s face, and he did not flinch or move, give any indication he saw the approaching hand, until Faani gripped his bruised jaw, tightly. Only then did he startle, pull away. “What did the Paedi offer in exchange for this ... medicine?” Faani let his derision and disbelief colour his words. Through gritted teeth, made all the more awkward by Faani’s grip, the Atlantean snarled, “A portion of their goura crop. Medicine for food.”

Faani laughed and pushed the man away.  “The goura will only ripen in a month. You expect me to believe you trade on Paedi promises?”

A shrug, like Faani’s belief, or lack thereof, was immaterial, and the prisoner said, “They haven’t broken their word yet.”

It was perhaps a good thing that the Atlantean could not see Faani’s face, or else he might have rescinded those words – in fear.  Faani stared at the man, frozen in irate fear, as a thousand thoughts raced through his head. 

The Paedi had traded with Atlantis before. That was the implication, and the prisoner had no cause to lie – not about that. That the Paedi had done so, had traded crops for who knew what, without the Jhim’s knowledge terrified Faani. What else had occurred without their knowledge. The Jhim watched the Gate so carefully.  They must – it was their duty.

The blow was born more from fear than anger; his backhand rocked the Atlantean’s head back. “When? When else has Atlantis traded with the Paedi?” 

Reeling and shaking his head, the man groaned, “Shit. Stop hitting ... just... I don’t know. A couple of times. Offworld – at the Free Markets. Good trades – honest trades.”

The Jhim never left Kaari. Never. Only the Paedi were foolish enough to expose their people to the filth and disease of the Galaxy. To the predation of the Wraith. Time and time again the Paedi’s foolish actions resulted in negative consequences for the Jhim. Like the fever that swept through their villages five seasons ago. Like the disease plaguing the Paedi now. 

But without travelling offworld themselves, the Jhim could not stop the Paedi, could not know what plans, what deals they struck with Offworlders.  Here was further proof, proof that the Jhim were failing their duty. 

Paedi trade caravans were always heavily armed, and it had been seasons and seasons since the Jhim had been able to stop one. This was why their plan was so important. The Paedi were wittingly or not bringing death to Kaari. 

It had to stop. 

Faani needed to think, needed to council with his men. 

Standing, he growled at Jai. “Secure him in the pen again like the dog he is. We must talk.”

Jai nodded and instantly obeyed. Faani whirled on his heel, and Kuai followed, hissing words only for Faani’s ears. “This is bad, very bad.”

Faani could only growl in agreement.

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*

It was getting darker, the sun sinking below the horizon with real intent.  Sheppard could only really sense that evening was descending because the blurs around him were fading into further murkiness and dimness. 

On the whole, the Jhim were ignoring him, going about their activities in a sullen silence. No matter the gloom around him though, Sheppard kept himself still and quiet, trying to look as defeated as possible. 

It wasn’t hard.

The ropes around his wrists were thick, the material brittle and dry. It was a sad indictment of his time in Pegasus that Sheppard was familiar with the quality, durability, and strength of different types of rope. He had a separate list for chains and cuffs, but luckily the rope list was short and sweet. It wasn’t impossible to get out of ropes if you had time, patience, and a willingness to lose skin. 

The ropes of the Jhim were rough but not the toughest he’d had to slip. Further in his favour was the fact that during the struggle, he’d kept his fists curled and tight so that now he had a little slack to use, some space to wiggle free. 

Slowly, patiently, he was exploiting the slack in one loop, spreading the fibres, fraying what he could, and making good, albeit tedious, progress. If the Jhim left him alone all night, he might be free by morning. 

Morning would be too late.

While it was easier to close his eyes and try the ropes more by feel until it was full dark, the need to watch for curious eyes and vengeful retribution outweighed that relief. The risk of lapsing into unconsciousness was also too real.

Heavy footsteps stilled Sheppard’s hands. The sound and reverberation of the footsteps alerted him, his ear pressed to the dirt. He turned to face the approaching man, and squinted up at a wavering blur. It was too dark to really pick out features, but the stance and broad frame were clues enough. The bastard who had taken such special attention to beat him, and who had sliced his foot open. 

Kuuro. He was also the reason he could not wait until morning.

The urge to glare back, to direct as much hate and anger as he was no doubt receiving, burned through Sheppard. However, it was a little hard to do so though through one eye that was in all likelihood glaring at the wall behind Kuuro. 

Sheppard knew that at some point in the night, he’d get his chance. Kuuro would not let Sheppard’s fate be decided by the Jhim leader. Of that Sheppard was absolutely certain. Cautiously, Sheppard spat, clearing his mouth of dust. Kuuro did not move, his looming figure radiating hatred, quivering with suppressed motion, and cold, deadly regard. 

For a second, then two, Sheppard thought that maybe he’d misjudged. Kuuro seemed to be gathering himself and perhaps the attack would come now, despite the leader’s orders. It was hard not to tense in response, to feign even dimmer sight than he already had, to assume the posture of defeated submissiveness.

As a voice called out, and light spilled across the area from a hastily opened door, the moment passed, and Kuuro rapidly strode away. 

Letting out a suppressed breath of the relief, Sheppard returned to worrying the ropes. 

Rescue was hours away, but the rescue team, no doubt with Ronon in tow, would gate onto Kaari at close to midnight – Kaari time. The nights were short on this world, a scant eight hours between sunset and sunrise, but the Gate team would not know to look for him in this village for several hours after their arrival.  By then, Kuuro would have made his move.

Somehow between blurred vision and a wounded foot, Sheppard had to by himself enough time to be rescued. 

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*  
  
continued in [Part 2](http://tari-roo.livejournal.com/62420.html)

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politics aside, Kaari wasn’t a holiday destination. Throw in an ambush, a thorough beating and being captured, and Sheppard is more than ready to go home. Or wait to be rescued. Whichever ever happens first.

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*

Faani rubbed his eyes and growled. Kuai had signalled the villages of Vul and Hil, advising them of his intent to speed up the plan, but also requesting a meeting. The fact that the Paedi might already have Atlantean weapons was a game changer, a complete shift in power.

The answering response had been positive. Guuro and Hai would arrive in the early morning to discuss their options and perhaps assist in interrogating the prisoner. Faani shot a glance outside at the full dark of night pressing in against the firelight. The impulse to go out and press for more answers, for confirmation of Paedi deception was urgent. Yet Faani knew Guuro and Hai would have to hear the words themselves. They would suspect his report. The other Jhim leaders viewed him as a hothead, a loose thread in their careful plans.

As much as it grated, Faani knew his colleagues too well and needed their support more than their good opinion.

The Atlantean could spend a cold, uncomfortable night in the dark, and between his injuries, thirst, and hunger, would be more pliable come morning.

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*

Sheppard didn’t even bother trying to see the stars as night fell. His head was pounding so badly, between dehydration and the aftermath of his beating, that moving his head too much made the world tilt in violent colours of reds and yellows. Whether mild or not, the concussion was in full force, and even using the pain, and there was a lot of pain to chose from, Sheppard struggled to stay awake.

Usually, if the team slept over on a new world, Sheppard liked to take a moment to see the stars of Pegasus from a different perspective. As a dwarf galaxy, the Pegasus night sky was not as densely lit as the Milkyway, but John enjoyed spotting constellations that had become familiar over the years, a new set of friends. Not tonight though. 

In the past hour, maybe longer, he’d nodded off in the middle of trying the ropes and lubricating his escape one too many times. He wasn’t nearly as far along as he needed to be in loosening the ropes. Alas, one of the catnaps had resulted in a bout of nausea as he struggled awake, and now the pit smelled of vomit as well as blood and urine.

The dark felt oppressive, the heat of the day not dissipating at all, and it felt like a heavy blanket draped over him. Taking a shallow breath, John fought for focus and continued to pick at the rope. His wrists were raw, which was a good sign, but the pain was no longer as effective in keeping him alert. The ropes were on the way to being lose enough to slip.

A footstep.

Heavy. Boots.

Sheppard felt it more than heard it. Hoping the dark would hide the movement, Sheppard tensed and stilled. The limited confines of the dog pen were carved into his brain after staring at nothing else for hours through one swollen eye and fading light. Short wooden fence, small gate facing the village entrance, no space between his bare feet and the pen’s gate. The sunken depth, though shallow, mimicked a shallow grave.  He was already half-buried.

The man approaching the pen paused, perhaps waiting to see if John was aware of him. Feigning stillness, Sheppard pictured the possibilities, his surroundings,  and held his breath. In the silence of a sleeping village, there was a shuffle of feet, hesitant almost, then – an explosion of movement, boots hurrying forward towards him, only to pause, a beat of silence as Kuuro stepped into the pen, and one foot landed with a thud.

Sheppard struck. While Kuuro was still mid-step, half in and half out of the pen, Sheppard kicked up and out with both legs, hoping to hit him squarely. He did, but Sheppard didn’t pause to relish his success.

Kuuro stumbled, his cry caught off in pain, trailing boot thudding against the wood of the pen, and John kicked again, aiming for his mid-section. Sheppard’s wounded foot met solid flesh, but he ignored the flare of agony and followed through with the other foot. Kuuro collapsed on top of him, the wind knocked out of him, sharp knees digging into Sheppard’s legs, graceless arms and elbows connecting with the prisoner’s prone form.

One small wooden pen. One prisoner. One pole in the floor for the rope.

Whether by luck or design, but probably luck, Kuuro’s head stuck the pole. Sheppard couldn’t tell if it was a good solid blow or a glancing one, but it felt like his full weight fell on top of him. Twisting, trying not to tighten the rope around his neck, John kicked the guy some more, until he stopped moving.

Heart pounding, his head echoing an unhappy accompaniment, John sucked in air, feeling an urgent ‘ _move move move’_ run through him. Someone might have heard the commotion, the sleeping quarters were not far away.

Gingerly, Sheppard quickly felt around with his foot, searching for the knife he had heard fall. Hopefully it had fallen into the pen and not out. As swollen fingers found smooth, cool metal under his heel,  Sheppard paused, breathing loudly in relief.

It was an exercise in truly twisted Twister, manoeuvring around Kuuro, trying to pull the knife towards his hands all within the restrictions of the dog kennel. Bruised ribs protested the movements and awkward positioning, thigh and calf muscles shaking with effort, the underlying threat of cramping and spasms a real danger.

Panting and drenched with sweat, Sheppard finally, finally felt the metal of the blade with his numb fingers. Still with the urgent ‘now now’ pressing on him, fearing that unseen enemies were approaching even if he couldn’t hear them, John struggled to move the knife blade let alone get it in position to cut through the ropes. Exhaustion was tugging on his sleeves, making everything shake, his body already pushed to the limits of endurance.

Straining to hear if anyone was coming, Sheppard paused, trying to sort the village sounds from his heart beat and Kuuro’s groans. Silence pounded in reply, and John gripped the blade, forcing his fingers to co-operate. Sawing the blade through the ropes was more about pressure than anything else. Something seemed to give, a measure of more space suddenly possible, and Sheppard pulled, hands coming apart, shoulders flaring at the release after being pinned for so long.

It felt like a different hand had cut the rope hanging from his neck, and Sheppard stared at the blank space where he _knew_ his hand was. Fingers thick with blood and raw from the ropes ached as he clenched them into fists, but for the life of him, Sheppard couldn’t see his hand. He felt the rope dangling from his neck, bumping into his chest, a soft ‘tap tap’, but the long length was lost in the dark.

“Shit.”

Kuuro was silent, a heavy weight on one foot, the sliced one. John looked around, trying to find some light, something to break the stygian dark around him. When had his sight so utterly failed him? Faint patches of lighter grey, tingeing on yellow were overhead from shuttered windows. But that was about it – smudges of light on a canvas of pitch black.

Licking his lips, wincing at the blood and roughness and pain, Sheppard shoved aside the rush of panic that rose in his throat, stomach churning in concert. Gathering himself, he realised that he needed to move before fear and uncertainty immobilised him; he couldn’t afford to be caught napping.  Sheppard tried to focus. Blind and one working foot. No problem.

Kicking Kuuro off, Sheppard slowly stood, hands clutching the sides of the wooden pen, head blazing, the world tilting. Maybe standing wasn’t such a good idea after all. Everything felt off and disconnected. Someone else’s legs. Someone else’s arms.  It was definitely his head that was throbbing on his shoulders, and his stomach  that was threatening to empty non-existent contents and spilt his head wide open.

Breathing through the agony and nausea, and the whirl of everything, Sheppard waited for reality to settle. Was it midnight? Had the rescue team arrived? Was the village close enough to the Gate for an incoming wormhole to be audible? Could he walk far enough to meet them?

Without really thinking about it, Sheppard straightened and lifted a cautious leg over the low pen wall. At least, he remembered it being low. Stepping down into nothing was disconcerting but fortunately the ground hadn’t moved, and his good foot found solid footing. Pushing up and over, pulling the rest of him out of the shallow grave back into life was more whirligig than steady.

Silence and peace seemed to be the order of the night, but Kuuro would not be out for long unless Sheppard’s luck was really in the green (which it never was) and he’d hit the guy harder than he thought. Either way, it was time to vacate this lovely example of hovel living on Dusty Hell and find help. Sheppard just had to find the gate and hope to hell it wasn’t locked beyond the means of a blind man.

The open area in the middle of the village felt immense in size and space. The dog pen had been relatively central to the village round, the mass of circular buildings completely surrounding the open area, two stories high, with balconies overlooking the center. Now the buildings felt miles away, an open expanse of treacherous ground to cover – unseen ground.

“Go straight, hit a wall – quietly. Hope for the best.”

Sheppard sighed at his own advice, but took one hesitant step forward. It was a small step, and his injured left foot dragged in a half hobble limp but it was progress.  Settling himself, finding his balance, Sheppard took another step, and then another, all the while willing the village and its occupants to stay asleep.

“This is not the time to need a piss or look out the window.”

It helped, hearing his own murmuring voice. It made the vast openness less somehow, gave it dimension where his eyes failed to do so. Sheppard kept the hand clutching Kuuro’s knife down, hoping the blade was not shining or reflecting in the torch or window light. His left hand though was stretched out, his only forewarning for approaching obstacles, an eye based on touch.

Sheppard hoped his progress was steady and true because it felt halting and incredibly slow. Just how big was this damn place? The ground, hard packed mud or dirt, was smooth but not seamless, his toes catching on the odd line or crack. It was mostly his injured foot that found the cracks and uneven parts, or perhaps they just felt worse.

Wood groaned suddenly, the sound above his head. The soft murmur of voices, sleepy and indistinct. Sheppard froze, heart pounding, seeing ‘hand’ still. He waited, listening intently for further sounds. More creaks and groans, and then heart-stoppingly – footsteps.

Instinctively, Sheppard scuttled forward, desperate to find shadow, the need to be hidden giving him a burst of energy. Both outstretched hands, knife still clasped tightly, abruptly found a wooden post, and Sheppard limped closer, pressing his back against it.

The sounds overhead were now closer, more directly above him. The wood of the post, or supporting column, felt smooth and well worn. The various mass of complaints from his body were lost in the roar of adrenalin as the threat of discovery pressed down on him. Shuffling, injured foot braced, toes pressed into the ground for a quick escape, Sheppard paused to listen.

Dull thuds of footsteps shook the timbers and Sheppard imagined the dust falling, shaken lose by the movement. Abruptly the footsteps stopped, and there was a muffled groan as someone fell back into bed. Counting silently, waiting any further movement, Sheppard took long deep breathes, bracing himself for what he hoped was the final dash. He had to be close to the Gate, he just had to be.

Just as Sheppard was about to move, an idea tickled the back of his brain. The Jhim were at odds with their neighbours quite obviously. The village was relatively close to the Paedi village. Would they have stationed sentries? Someone to watch for a Paedi attack? Sheppard tried to remember if the Paedi had guards at their village entrance. There had definitely been a large pack of dogs roaming the structure, but he couldn’t remember any distinct guard positions.

The Jhim, and this village in particular, did not have dogs anymore. Were there sentries instead?

Cursing silently, Sheppard paused. If there were sentries, would they have not heard his fight with Kuuro? There had been no outcry.  Even if the sentries had known and approved of Kuuro’s plan to kill Sheppard, they would have investigated a scuffle.

Or maybe not. Maybe Kuuro was not the fighter he believed, and the sentries expected a bit of noise. Indecision weighed Sheppard down. Should he move ahead? Sentries would be focused on the outside not the inside. If they were present, perhaps he’d only encounter them at the Gate or just beyond.

Shit, shit, shit.

Was he over thinking everything, over complicating the situation, or showing just the right amount of caution?

The problem was – he couldn’t frigging see any guard, sentries, or anything!

Right now would be a great time to develop Daredevil like super abilities so that sound could become sonar and voila – he could see.

Sheppard waited, either for his wish to be granted (ha!) or for a series of clear and distinct sounds that would confirm or deny the presence of sentries.

It was perfectly and soundly quiet.

Now, under the rooms overhead, there were even fewer light smudges to judge any distance from, so Sheppard decided to take the bit between his teeth, forge ahead, and deal with the consequences as needed. The most important priority was actually finding the Gate, unless sentries were leaning against it, watching him approach.

Unlikely.

Limping forward, both hands outstretched, Sheppard tried to be as silent as possible, going for stealth rather than speed. It wasn’t long, even though his foot told him otherwise, when he encountered a solid obstacle. It felt like a wall , smooth wood, a series of upright logs. Choosing to go right and hoping the Gate wasn’t left, Sheppard shuffled along the wall, feeling for a latch, a chain, a lock, a nice broad opening with a Braille sign saying – exit here.

Unfortunately, the wall was not free of noisy obstacles, and Sheppard nearly kicked the metaphorical bucket as his good, right foot knocked over something that sounded like a metal container. Freezing, ears straining to hear if the sound had roused anyone, or alerted the potential sentries, Sheppard clutched the knife and tried to keep his heart inside his chest.

He couldn’t hear any movement.

Deciding to press on at least for a few more feet, Sheppard fumbled forward and joy of joys, found a latch. The logs, or poles of wood, also felt thinner and rougher. Sheppard leant against what he hoped was the Gate and listened.

As the seconds ticked by, it was the cooler night air that gave him hope. It felt fresher, and he thought he could hear more country night-time sounds beyond the Gate. It might be delusions born of desperate need, but it didn’t seem to be a storeroom or room beyond the door. Now for the latch.

First, Sheppard gently explored with his fingers, trying to make sense of the shape and function of the mechanism. It felt simple: a metal rod inserted into metal loops. It was large, sturdy, and there was no lock. Thinking ahead, Sheppard stretched upwards, running his hand up the wooden poles, searching for another latch. There it was, a smaller but similar one.

Covering his bases, Sheppard slowly leaned down, checking the bottom of the gate, wincing as splinters dug into his tender fingers, from the rougher edges, scarred no doubt by passing traffic.

Another latch.

Since he was down there, and his legs were shaking with the effort of standing, Sheppard sank to his haunches and began the interesting task of quietly working the latch out. The metal rod squeaked and whined as he pulled on it – no matter how slowly.

Tucking the knife under his arm, and pressing down to keep it in place, Sheppard covered the latch with one hand, hoping to muffle the sound as he worked the little rod out. Grimacing, head leaning against the gate, John tried to remain calm as he worked. The bolt eventually slid out with a final creak. Not pausing, but still moving slowly in favour of his head, Sheppard stood, and started on the largest, centre latch. It was a lot smoother, perhaps used more often.

Thankfully a mixed up planet like Kaari, which seemed at home with a combination of technology and old fashioned devices, didn’t have more complicated security. 

Centre latch done, the gate already feeling loser, Sheppard slowly reached for the top latch, adrenalin pumping as escape loomed. The top latch was far more stubborn than even the bottom, and while not too high, was just high enough to make it awkward. Wiggling and gently, quietly, trying to free the bolt was getting him nowhere. In desperation, Sheppard pulled hard and abruptly the bolt slid out with a loud, metallic shriek.

Not waiting to hear if that had alerted anyone, Sheppard pushed against the gate, praying it opened.

It did.

It was heavy, the mass of wooden poles quite sturdy, and Sheppard opened the gate just wide enough to slip through, palming the knife as he did.

If the open space in the center of the village had been intimidating, the great unseen outdoors was a hundred times worse.

Now Sheppard had no real, clear direction in mind. His trip to the village had been a painful one, one that he’d spent trying to keep Kuuro from pummelling and hurting him. They had approached from the west, but that didn’t mean that the StarGate was to the East. The dirt road from the Paedi village had been roughly a west-east course, but it rounded sharply to the southeast before reaching the Gate. Was the Jhim village to the west and north of the Gate? Or south?

“Right now would be a good time for a sign or something,” Sheppard sighed.

The immediate area remained signless. 

It was imperative that Sheppard go the right direction. Normally – with the use of his eyes, Sheppard would have picked a likely direction and got some distance from the Jhim. He’d be able to rely on his own abilities to remain out of their hands until Ronon and the rescue team found him – or he them. But now, blind and lame, he’d only be able to go so far and ran the risk of leaving a very clear trail with no idea what trouble he was heading into.

“Better yet, now would be a good time for help to arrive,” John muttered.

Weighing up his options, Sheppard decided to retrace the Jhim’s path back to the site of the ambush. The rescue team would head for the Paedi village and would find his dead men first, so if he was there at the same time...

Trying to orient himself on blurry memories and an absent (and unseen) sun, Sheppard headed in the direction of the path, west and a little bit north. There was still silence from the village and judging by the lack of outcry, no sentries. The distance to the path was completely unknown, and Sheppard tried to be as true as possible in his direction, but it was pure guesswork.

Fairly soon, Sheppard’s outstretched hand found vegetation. Luckily the brush was dense, though prickly, so it made for a clear indication of where the trail towards the village began. The area between the village and the dense brush had been clear, no crops or vegetation – possibly a firebreak. Kaari was arid and dusty enough that brush fire was probably a real concern.  Trusting he was on the right trail, and that there weren’t a good dozen around the village leading in many directions, Sheppard stepped forward with as much confidence as he could muster.

John kept to the right of the brush, his hand trailing the thick plants, so dry and brittle that his touch broke off little branches and twigs as he passed. As much as he yearned to go faster, Sheppard kept his pace slow, his foot a raging fire of agony with each halting step.

With the constant movement, his foot was again wet with blood, the cut down the center from sole to heel probably picking up enormous quantities of dirt. Keller was going to have to seriously clean the wound and either way, he’d probably end up with an infection.

It was blissfully quiet in the still night of this dry little world. No sounds of pursuit or heavy feet pounding behind him. The night breeze was cool against his aching head but was doing nothing for his thirst or headache. Bruised ribs groaned along with each limp. The skin on his face felt tight and cracked, the aftertaste of dust, vomit, and blood coating his tongue. Freedom didn’t taste nearly as sweet as advertised.

He was going at a blind, snail’s pace, but at least he was moving.

Perhaps the changeable, mercurial Gods of the Pegasus Galaxy, or the Fates at least, decided to offer a glimmer of hope to what had been a truly awful day, because after walking for a good long, halting while, Sheppard heard someone approaching.

Several someones. He knew the sound of Marines at a jog: silent, steady, minimal loose metal, intent with purpose.

The not so silent, paranoid voice of suspicion in his head warned that maybe it was the Jhim or someone else. The odds were good for it being someone else because the chances that Sheppard was on the right path to the Gate, the ambush site, or anything good, were slim. 

Sheppard paused, right hand on the shrubbery, left hand gripping the knife, straining –willing – his eyes to work, and to just frigging see long enough to know if he was saved or in a shit load more trouble.

“Sheppard?”

Ah. Saved.

Ronon’s voice was a hell of a lot closer than expected, but then the big guy could move as silent as death when he wanted.

“Rodney?”

The snort of laughter was music to Sheppard’s ears as was the sudden press of big but gently searching hands on his arms. “You ok? You look like crap.”

“Then I look like I feel, only I feel ten time worse. Did you find Fraser and the others?”

Ronon nodded.  Sheppard knew the gesture because the man’s dreads brushed against John’s arms. “Yep. We’ll pick them up on our way back.”

“Good,” Sheppard sighed patting Ronon’s arm, wishing he could see, but pissed that he could still see Fraser gasping his last, the desperation fading from his eyes as lifeblood seeped through John’s fingers. “Gonna need some help...”

“Paulsen!” Ronon hissed, and Sheppard was passed over to the medic, Paul Paulsen, so good they named him twice.

Luckily Paulsen was a credit to the Corpse and medics everywhere because he let Sheppard keep the knife as he ran a quick assessment of Sheppard’s injuries. No doubt noticing that Sheppard was favouring his foot, Paulsen said softly, “Can you walk, sir?”

“Nope, but there is no way in shit I’m being carried.”

“I think I hear someone.  Maybe two.” Ronon’s voice was quiet, but willingness to stay and fight was readily audible. John though, he wanted to head home, and did not want to leave any more dead Marines on Kaari.

“Is Johnson here?” Sheppard hissed, and Paulsen laughed. “Yep. Hey, Johnson.”

As Johnson approached, Sheppard felt Ronon radiating worry beside him, fidgeting at the delay. Paulsen hissed at Johnson, “Be careful.  He’s got bruised ribs, maybe cracked and a concussion.”

“Please try not to hurl on me, sir,” Johnson rumbled.

Sheppard nodded and patted the bulky Marine. “I make no promises.”

“If we’re going, we need to go now,” Ronon growled.

Sheppard braced himself.

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*

A loud commotion outside woke Faani, voices raised, men shouting. Snarling, he flung his blankets aside, grabbed his gun, and ran outside. Kuuro was standing in the middle of the village, clutching his head and yelling, alternately pointing at the pen and the open gate. Several men were lighting torches and readying weapons.

Tired and furious that Kuuro had no doubt tried to kill the prisoner and somehow allowed him to escape, Faani shouted, “Silence! Gaiti, Jai, head out now. See if you can pick up his trail. He’s wounded and concussed. He can’t be far.”

His men nodded, and Jai quickly ran out the gate, Gaiti not far behind. Faani glared down at Kuuro, who glared back. “Everyone else, arm yourselves. He might reach a Paedi patrol or rouse them with enough noise. I want him alive!”

There were shouts of agreement and lots of motion. Kuuro was a fixed point of glowering stillness, as if he knew he was not expected to move and did not wish to.

“Kuuro, you are to stay here. And await my judgement.”

The man, blood streaming down his face, spat in disgust and stalked off, heading to sulk in his quarters.

Faani grabbed his boots and ran down the stairs to the ground level. His men were soon assembled and the chase began in earnest. Gaiti and Jai left them signs to follow and even though it was dark, his men ran swiftly and silently.

As the pursuit progressed, Faani felt a growing anger and desperation rise within him. They caught up with Jai who had lingered to warn them of more men  - fresh Atlanteans. Gaiti was quietly pursuing but was outnumbered.

Faani increased the pace. He needed that information.

As fit and as fast as his men were, they did not catch the Atlanteans at the break in the trails. The site of the ambush was empty of Atlantean dead, and Gaiti was waiting for them.

“Are they heading for the Ring or the Paedi?” Faani gasped, his heart pounding hard against his chest.

Gaiti scowled. “The Ring. They are fast, Faani and determined, even carrying the one we had and the dead.”

Faani didn’t care how fast or determined the Atlantean’s were. The Jhim were faster.

The path to the Ring was wide, an unfortunately well used and often travelled trail. Faani urged his men to be ready as they neared the Ring.

They reached the broad clearing in which the Ring stood just in time to see the bright blue of the Ancestor’s path between the stars flare into existence. “Stop!” Faani cried, but the black clad men were already too close to the shimmering surface.

Before any of the Jhim could open fire, bright red stunner fire rained down on them, and two of his men fell. Faani scrambled for cover that did not exist, and watched helplessly as one, two, three men stepped through the Ring, all carrying a man over his shoulders. The last two Atlantean’s ran for the Ring, and the Jhim’s gunfire was lost in the blue water of the Path.

Cursing, Faani stood and vowed to make Kuuro pay for this. None of the Jhim would follow the Atlanteans, using the Ring was against every principle they owned to be true.

Abruptly the Ring’s blue water disappeared in a resounding echo, and the clearing was plunged back into natural darkness.

Whatever information on the Paedi’s plans was now lost, lost to the wider Galaxy the Jhim so feared and hated. The Jhim would have to modify their plans and strike sooner, harder and somehow, somehow, save Kaari.

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*

Atlantis was awash in shades of white and blue. Not in and of itself an unusual thing, but the lack of distinction, clarity and well – clearness was.

Sheppard didn’t care.

Keller had reassured him, several times, that his eyesight would improve as the swelling around his face dissipated, and his concussion repaired itself. He needed rest, time, and lots of medication. Sheppard was happy with that.

He didn’t even mind that his usual recuperation activities of DVDs, or PSP, or even reading were out of the question because it was fantastic just knowing where he was, and that it happened to be in the Infirmary on Atlantis.

Woolsey had popped by briefly, a bespectacled blur, and he had promised to contact the Paedi – offworld at the Free Market– and warn them about the Jhim.  Part of the warning would be a gentle, but firm reminder that Atlantis would appreciate a heads up on the true nature of the ‘rebels’. An escort when next visiting Kaari – which wouldn’t happen anytime soon - would be a requirement.

Rodney had yet to return after his brief visit, which mostly consisted of complaints and moans about his staff and Jennifer, and Sheppard was content to wait a long time for his return. Rodney was draining on days without a concussion, and Jennifer, who seemed as equally if not more annoyed with her fiancé after their romantic afternoon, would happily ban McKay if Sheppard asked.

Sheppard’s wrists were a mess and had taken ages to clean.  The mix of pain killers had been effective, albeit mild, but his foot would take a good while to heal. The only real bonus for continued blurry vision:  his report and paperwork would have to wait. Lorne could deal with the death notifications, but John would still send a personal letter as usual to the families. Fraser, McDonald, and Giovanni were good men and would be missed.

Two sets of very familiar footsteps drew John from thoughts of dead Marines – too many over the years- and he smiled awkwardly, face and mouth still very tender, “Hey, Teyla. Ronon.”

Teyla’s touch was gentle but certain, and her smile was audible. “Hey, John. You are looking very colourful today, but I hope you are feeling better.”

Ronon slumped into the chair on the other side of Sheppard, a loud ‘oof’ of weariness accompanying the slump. John nodded. “Yeah, getting there. What did you bring me?”

“As requested, your iPod.”

Sheppard sighed as Teyla pressed the hard little device and earphones into his hand. “Thanks.  Appreciate it.”

“You are welcome. I’d stay longer, but the Concilliari are here early for the trade negotiation. I will return after.”

“Sure, sure.”

Her parting kiss on his forehead was soft, butterfly wings of comfort, and her footsteps quickly faded. “You hanging around, Chewie?”

Ronon’s snore was Sheppard’s answer, and John fished out the earphones and plugged them in. Sleep was a firm tug on his body, but he liked the bright whites and blues so much more than the dark.  Sheppard leaned back, eyes firmly open (as much as possible) and thumbed the play button.

It was ironic, and perhaps thanks to McKay, that the first song that played was “ _Blind leading the Blind’_ by the Rolling Stones.

*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*

Fin

The prompt was: Sheppard loses one if his senses (temporarily). Which sense he loses is your choice, but he has to lose it in a life or death struggle to survive and has to compensate to survive.

Author Notes: *crosses fingers* Vecturist, I hope you enjoyed as I personally love ‘lose one of the senses’ fics and while I will admit to struggling with this one for a wee bit (cough see delay in posting) I did like the premise somewhat. Further, I tried a mini-experiment with Outsider POV, and more focus on the Outsider. I think it worked, but debated a long time with myself about whether or not I ‘left’ out too much of the SGA side. Anyhoo, hope you liked and it met the criteria. *still crosses fingers*


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